Fallen Masters (39 page)

He scanned the documents in the file again. The few facts were there, but they added up to a whole lot of nothing. He would have to go to the scene and start interviewing witnesses. Except that there were no witnesses. At least none that had been identified so far.
Damn!

“Director, you’ve got me in a box. You know I can’t abandon the Belfast investigation. But this—there’s something very strange going on here. It’s not a simple political kidnapping or a terrorist act. It seems very personal, and at the same time … very global.”

The director smiled wryly. “You see, that’s why I need you on this, Bobby. For your golden gut.”

“My golden gut is going to get sick in a minute.”

“Don’t go soft on me now. I have to trust you. In fact, you’re the only one I can trust.”

“You shouldn’t put yourself in that position, Dave. What if something happens to me?” Even though he was a good friend of long-standing, Bobby rarely called the director by his first name, unless they were out together socially, having a drink or hunting—increasingly rare occurrences.

The director said: “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Bobby. The only credible lead we have is this: a possible witness sighting in Los Angeles, by one of our informers. I want you to get out to Los Angeles and find that kid. You know the First Family better than anyone. You can still work on the Belfast thing remotely—that’s what we have computers for these days, eh? Will you do this for me?”

“Of course, Director. That’s why you sign my paycheck, I suppose.” He gave his friend and boss a lopsided grin.

“There’s one more thing. And this is something I will deny having said to you if I am ever asked. I suspect there may be an element within the FBI or CIA, or both, behind this abduction. Just as I am seeing more strands of evidence that the same bunch may be responsible for the assassination of the President. It may sound far-fetched to you now, but I want you to be aware of this theory—just between you and me—as you follow the facts here.”

Bobby Anderson had no response to the director’s final statement. He could think of nothing to say.

Within three hours, he was on a flight to LAX, during which he slept and dreamed of confronting the mad killer who had slaughtered eleven innocents and would kill who knew how many more if he failed. And in his dream state he already was trying to find a way somehow to rescue a young man who had already lost his father and was thrust into new danger just because of that relationship.

They were more nightmares than dreams.

Los Angeles

Special Agent Bobby Anderson’s flight landed in Los Angeles, and he received a special escort from the aircraft to the FBI office downtown, where an office had been arranged for him. Two agents and a secretary also were given to him by order of the FBI director through the Special Agent in Charge. He slumped in the chair and scanned through the text messages on his mobile telephone pad. There were a dozen from Belfast and one from the director. He read his boss’s first:

“Personnel in L.A. office are clean, in my estimation. However, I advise you to suspect everyone and everything you encounter, as discussed between us. Solve this case.”

Not that he needed any further encouragement … Anderson stifled a smile. His old friend was deathly afraid that the solution to the Marcus Jackson kidnapping would damage the agency and lead to further questions about the President’s killing. The entire intelligence community of the United States—and around the world, for that matter—were being publicly challenged to prove they were not involved. Difficult to prove a negative, but a professional proactive investigation by Agent Bobby Anderson would go a long way to winning back some credibility for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

But even with a new and overwhelming challenge, he couldn’t get the serial killing investigation out of his mind. The evidence at the bizarre crime scene in Belfast had pointed to an international scope of conspiracy, and his personal instinct—almost from the very beginning of his involvement—was that it somehow tied back to the United States, as well as other countries. But how? Why? Could there somehow be a link to the abduction of the late President’s son?

He did not want to speak of his questions to anyone. He kept it all in his gut and in his mind. He would follow the evidence, and right now the evidence and his FBI superiors wanted him to follow up persistent rumors that Marcus’s kidnappers were from L.A.—or might have transported the boy to L.A.

The hair on the back of Bobby’s head stood up when Los Angeles had been mentioned in the first briefing on the abduction case. Making connections … this was what Agent Anderson did. But connect what to what? He smiled inwardly at the thought. More would be revealed, as Dawson Rask might say.

Which brought Bobby back to the memory of his days in NYPD. That had been an education and a half. Something he’d never forget. His rookie assignment had been to the homicide squad, and his very first case a suspected serial killer operating in the five boroughs of the city. Those were the days of
HEADLESS BODY IN TOPLESS BAR
tabloid headlines and Mob hits seemingly every Thursday and the days before routine DNA testing. But Officer Anderson caught a juicy one they called the Bridge Man, who killed and mutilated prostitutes beneath some of New York’s famous bridges. Nine months of his life were devoted to meticulous follow-up of evidence and interviews with witnesses.

He made himself go to church every Sunday and showered twice a day—and he didn’t have a drop to drink, not even a single beer, during the investigation. He barely kept his sanity. Finally, he and his boss, a thirty-year sergeant, cracked the case together, based largely on a half thumbprint and a drug-addled witness at one of the crime scenes. And since then, during every day of his work in the FBI, he carried with him the lessons learned on the streets of the Big Apple—one of the chief of which was, he would follow his investigative instincts. Always.

*   *   *

So far, Anderson was drawing a complete blank on the Jackson case, and in frustration, he sat at his desk looking over the Belfast material again. How many times had he struggled with these case notes, and he still was left with more questions than answers.

Five of the first six victims had all been women, which had caused the police to conclude, at that stage of the investigation, that the motivation was, at least in part, sexual. The elaborate tattoos, the removal of the hearts, were perhaps no more than a smoke screen thrown up by the murderer to confuse investigators and throw them off the killer’s trail.

Then, the next victims, men of different backgrounds, diverted from the profile wildly. The only thing that seemed to emerge from the deaths was that in addition to the mutilations, the placement of the bodies seemed to show an ever-widening circle. The damnable thing was that in spite of the twenty-four-hour surveillance of the crime scene, bodies continued to pop up as if by magic.

Instinctively, Bobby Anderson, who was focusing more and more on the cultist dimensions of the crime, believed that the key lay before him—not only to solving these murders but to something else, something of greater dimensions. Once he found that key, it would unlock a door to a new mystery that had not even presented itself yet.

Anderson felt pulled in two directions. Mostly, that was because he was. The Bureau felt he was the most capable man to investigate what was going on in Belfast, and at the same time the chief entrusted him to find the President’s kidnapped son. To say that this was an honor and a curse was to put it mildly.

On top of it all, Anderson had become haunted by dreams of the murders and the victims. Not a night passed when he did not see one or more of them. They attempted to speak to him in the dreams, but he could not hear them. It was if he were deaf or watching a silent movie. Their lips moved indistinctly, and he could not read them. Yet he sensed quite clearly that they were trying to tell him that the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Central Intelligence Agency, arms of the American government for which he worked, were somehow involved in the crime—that he was there for a purpose beyond merely helping to solve the murders. He was there as a representative of some sort, someone who would carry back a message to his superiors that would lead to … what?

*   *   *

One night he bolted upright after such a dream, fully awake and sweating profusely. He had been given an insight but only for a fleeting moment, and he had not been able to hold on to it, to grasp it in his mind. What was it? What was the message that he—and only he—was supposed to receive? What was the
key
to these brutal acts?

Then he had another dream. Or was it a vision? It was something that had not yet happened, but he could not conceive of how it could happen, or when—or why.

He was standing on a stage of some kind. It was almost like an ancient Greek amphitheater with seats that rose up all around the stage, surrounding him. All the seats were filled, and the people in them were cheering loudly, unceasingly. Anderson was no longer alone, and as he looked around, he saw familiar faces elsewhere on the stage. One face in particular—a young man with whom he was very familiar, was Marcus Jackson, the son of the late President of the United States. In the dream Marcus smiled at Bobby Anderson. It was as if they shared some secret knowledge—but again, the FBI agent had no clue what that knowledge was. Somehow he knew, though, that the boy held the key. How could that be? What in God’s name had the son of the President to do with these murders in Belfast, Ireland?

A small, still voice within seemed to be attempting to communicate with Bobby, to guide him onto the correct path. What was it? Who was it? Was it anything besides his cop’s instinct, which had never failed him, from his first NYPD case till now? He listened … listened hard. But he sensed only the faintest “sound” as a tickling of his consciousness.

Overloaded. Oversensitive. Undersleeping. He could not shut off. His mind was constantly racing with symbolism, and now the facts of both investigations were bleeding together. And he was losing objectivity since he felt connected to the family … more than most.

*   *   *

During the last presidential campaign, Bobby Anderson had been detached from the FBI for the duration to provide security for Candidate Jackson and his family. It was an interesting assignment, providing him with a close-up look at democracy in action. There was the time the bus broke down outside Ozark, Alabama, and a farmer and his wife fed the thirty-four people who had suddenly become their guests. Before the meal was over, another forty neighbors arrived and Candidate Jackson held an impromptu rally right there.

Bobby remembered one of the guests who stayed in the background. The man had a sour expression on his face and Bobby was sure his ire was racially motivated. It was, but as it turned out his animosity was less toward Candidate Jackson than for his wife.

“I read she was a Vietnamese. She’s one of them illegals who come over here on a boat. We ought to put her on a boat and send her ass back to where she come from,” the man whispered to his neighbor, who hushed him.

Bobby overheard and kept an eye on him. He was relieved when he saw him climb into an old red pickup truck and drive away.

He also recalled a memorable flight. The chartered 757 that Senator Jackson had used as his campaign plane was named
Chien Thang.
Win had chosen the name, which was Vietnamese for “Victory.” On this night, the plane was flying through a storm, and as lightning flashed outside, the plane pitched and yawed as the pilot tried, unsuccessfully, to find some smoother air.

A lot of the passengers on board were visibly frightened, and Bobby recalled that young Marcus had gone out of his way to calm the fears of a female journalist from CNN.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Marcus had told her. “Captain Kirby has more than ten thousand hours. Why, he flies through weather like this all the time. And this airplane? It is a Boeing 757, and it is as strong as a tank.”

“You seem to know a lot about airplanes,” the woman said.

“I’ve read all about them,” Marcus said.

Bobby watched from three rows back, smiling in admiration as the boy continued to ease the young woman’s fears until she was actually laughing.

A few minutes later, Marcus walked back to the lounge and put a pack of popcorn into the microwave. When it started popping, Bobby walked back to join him.

“That’s smelling awfully good,” he said.

“You can share it with me,” Marcus said.

“I saw the way you handled that lady reporter. Your mom and dad would be very proud of you.”

“I remember what it was like when I was a little kid and would sometimes get scared,” Marcus said.

Bobby chuckled.

“I know why you are laughing. You’re still thinking of me as kid now. I’m not.”

“No, I guess you’re not.”

The bell rang and Marcus took out the popcorn. “If we both sit there, we can eat it out of the bag and won’t have to mess anything else up,” he suggested.

“Good idea.”

“Mr. Anderson, you investigated those serial murders in New York, didn’t you?”

“How did you know about that?”

“I read about them. Do you believe that there is evil in the world?”

“Of course. The person who killed all those people was evil.”

“No, I don’t mean evil as in an evil person. I mean evil, just all by itself.”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve never really thought about it that way. Why would you ask a question like that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about evil and reading about it. One of my favorite authors is Dawson Rask, and I really like what he writes about. I mean, I don’t
like
that stuff, but I wanted to talk to some grown-up about it, but I know that Mom wouldn’t want to think about such a thing, Dad doesn’t have time to think about it, and none of my friends that are my age would understand it. But you have actually come up against it.”

“I know Dawson Rask personally; he is a good friend of mine, as a matter of fact,” Anderson said. “I think he is incredibly smart and knows so much about ancient wisdom teachings and the depiction of good and evil in the world.”